


Short Stories from the Magical City

by threeplusfire



Series: Bad Things Come In Threes [18]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Multi, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:11:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shorts set in the Urban Magic Yogs universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sips, age 23

**Author's Note:**

> A story about Sips, before he left home. Age 23, approximately.

Whiskey burned in the back of his throat, and Sips fought the urge to throw up. Everything smelled like blood. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and he waved wordlessly, staring at his empty glass. It was going to be fine, he told himself. Everything was going to be fine. He heard his name called from the front room. There were too many people in the house. Sips turned abruptly into the little bathroom in the front hall and stood there, hiding from the noise.

“Don’t let Mom catch you drinking in the middle of the afternoon,” his oldest sister hissed angrily. Marie leaned around him to snatch the glass out of his hand. Sips stared at her, surprised.

“Pull it together, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced over her shoulder into the hallway. Some of their younger cousins dashed through, chasing each other and shouting. Marie rinsed the glass out and set on the edge of the sink.

“Marie, listen-”

“No, you listen to me,” his sister whispered. “I know where you were-”

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Just don’t, okay?”

They stared at each other. Marie’s blue eyes were angry, and afraid. Sips tried to smile reassuringly. His reflection in the mirror looked too normal for this moment. He expected to see blood all over his shirt every time he looked.

“It’s going to be fine.” The words stuck in his throat, sounding much less confident than he intended. Sips swallowed, tried again.

“It’s going to be fine,” he repeated, as Marie shook her head in disbelief.

“You sure about that?” she asked.

“Actually no,” he admitted with a little laugh. He regretted the words the instant he said them, watching Marie’s stricken face. She turned at the sound of children racing down the hall, more of their cousins and two of her own children this time.

“What have I told you about running in the house?” she demanded, her voice raised. A chorus of abashed voices answered her. Sips couldn’t slip past her and make an escape, so he just sat down on the edge of the bath tub. The smell of blood came with him. Nothing seemed to make it go away.

Marie closed the bathroom door, sending the pack of children off to play in the back yard. She looked down at Sips, and he could see her willing herself to be strong. It made her look so much like their mother.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, sitting down on the floor. 


	2. Cooking

Sips flipped channels with a disgruntled expression. There was nothing worth watching on television tonight at all. Even the re-runs were crappy. Sips was not in the mood for episodes of Law & Order he was pretty sure he’d seen about fifty times. He pushed his cap up and scratched his head.

“Ugh,” he sighed.

“You don’t want to watch that movie with the giant sea monster?” Ross asked. He leaned against the sofa, head against Sips’ knee.

“I can’t not hear Trott complaining about how the movie monsters are completely inaccurate to real life,” Sips complained. He flipped the channel again.

Ross snorted and sat up, glancing from the television to Sips. He wasn’t sure Trott had been serious when he started complaining about ocean monsters, but Ross enjoyed how righteously annoyed Trott got on the subject. Though it had ended with Sips refusing to ever go swimming again, despite Trott’s assurances that he was pretty safe on the beach.

“You know what,” Sips said slowly as a commercial played for a fast food joint serving burgers and shakes. “I could really go for something sweet.”

 

 

* * *

Sips propped his elbows on the kitchen counter, watching Ross crack eggs into the bowl. He enjoyed this, a warm kitchen with the radio on, and someone making food. Sips could cook halfway decently, but Ross was getting better and he had much more patience with things. Sips wouldn’t even bother with actually baking the cookies. If it was just him, he’d eat the bag of chocolate chips and call it a day. This was definitely better. 

“How come you’re the one who does all the cooking?” Sips asked. Beside him, Ross hummed under his breath as he stirred in vanilla to the cookie dough.

“Because I’m the only one who wants to,” he said, lips quirking into a little smile. “Trott would rather just order take out, and I think Smith would burn the place down if you tried to get him to cook anything.”

“Good point.” Sips took the spoon Ross offered him. He ate the raw cookie dough as Ross spooned out chunks of dough onto the baking pan. The sugar was gritty in his teeth, and Sips dug out extra chocolate chips from the bag.

“Do you even want me to cook these?” laughed Ross.

“Maybe some of them,” Sips replied as he scooped another spoonful of dough out of the bowl. Ross slid the pan into the oven and wiped his hands off on his jeans.

“You need an apron,” said Sips thoughtfully. Ross shrugged, eating a handful of chocolate chips. He moved closer to Sips, tail curling around his leg. Together they ate cookie dough, watching the oven timer tick down. 

 


	3. Gifts

_“Have I entered an alternate universe, or did you really just crack a smile for me?”_

Ross tapped Will with his tail. He was so pleased that his usually serious friend seemed to like the present.

“This - I don’t even know what to say.” Will looked up, still smiling. “Where did you even get this?”

“Smith really likes to go to malls sometimes,” explained Ross. He liked the malls too, if only for the plethora of odd food choices and the strange mannequins in store windows.

Will carefully opened the box and removed the original Super Nintendo from its packaging.

“I wanted one of these a lot when I was little,” he mused. “I bet it still works.” Will used his magic to feel the connections inside the machine, little sparks chasing each other down the boards. The machine switched itself on in his hands. It was Ross’ turn to grin.

“Well, let’s play something.”

 

* * *

Will sat underneath the spreading branches of the enormous oak tree, watching the sunlight shift and flicker as the leaves rustled. It was a gorgeous afternoon, the early spring air scented with fresh greenery and flowers.

 _“I got you a present,”_ Kirin said. Will turned to look at him, surprised and ready to protest. But his words died away as he looked at the box in Kirin’s broad palm.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Will breathlessly. He squeezed his hands into the grass, fighting the urge to rip it out of Kirin’s hands.

“I hope so,” Kirin chuckled. “Go on, open it.” He pressed the box into Will’s hands. The gold wrapping paper shimmered as Will tore into it with impatient glee.

“Oh Kirin, this is too much…”

“I think it is exactly right,” Kirin replied. He lifted the watch out of the box and fastened the pale gray leather band around Will’s wrist. Will touched the rose gold case with one finger, a little smile on his face as the screen booted.


	4. Down the dark tunnels

Down in the dark tunnels, the stagnant air smelled like rot. The lines Will traced from the city planning office only covered the subway system, but that was enough. On the south side of the city, there was a whole section of the subway line that had to be abandoned due to structural issues and flooding. It was mostly still intact, just sealed off and forgotten. Will even thought there might be working lines down there, and wanted to see for himself. He wasn’t happy about being forbidden from exploring the place.  
Kirin stood on the platform of the empty station, in his little circle of light. Moss grew up the walls, covering the elaborate Art Deco tile work. Water ran down the empty tracks, a steady stream with the occasional splash. Despite the fetid air and the moss, it felt dead. Nothing stirred. Unease tightened at the base of his skull, along with the sense that something watched.  
Attempting a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel, Kirin crossed his arms and let his glamour fade away.  
“I’m not going to wait all day, witch.” His voice echoed in the tunnels.  
“Witch is such a nasty term.” The voice came from behind him. Kirin turned very slowly.  
“It’s something you call humans, isn’t it?” Lying asked. They were looking down at the water, their long pale hair hanging around their face in careless tangles.  
“Disavowing your kin, are you?”  
“I haven’t been human in a very long time,” laughed Lying. “But you don’t care about that. You’re here because you want something.”  
“I do.” Kirin‘s eyes glittered with a greenish light.


	5. Ferris wheel

Smith looked skeptically at the Ferris wheel, and then back to Ross with his hopeful expression.

“It’s fine,” Trott said, waving a hand dismissively. “Get on already.” He pushed Ross into the swinging car. Smith watched it for a moment, waiting to see if it would bend or snap free under the weight.

“Are you afraid?” Trott asked in his ear, startling Smith. He glared and stepped up after Ross, who was too busy staring upwards to pay much attention to them.

“Fuck off Trott, this is a terrible idea,” Smith hissed. “Ross is solid stone and this is a flimsy carnival ride.”

Trott only laughed and pushed into the car, settling down beside Smith on the narrow bench seat. The surly ride operator slammed the gate closed behind them and ambled away.

Even with both of them on the opposite side from Ross, the car still tilted a bit. Smith tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach as the ride lurched into motion, and they slowly began to rise. The car rocked as Ross twisted around to get a better view. Smith gripped the side, a fixed expression on his face.

“This is not bad,” Trott said, his voice mild as he patted Smith’s leg. They could see the river, and the biggest of the bridges from here. He nudged Smith with an elbow, drawing his attention to the joyful look on Ross’ face.

“They should have given him wings,” Smith whispered. “Then I wouldn’t have to ride this damn thing.” But his expression softened a little.

They were just over the top when the wheel jolted to an abrupt stop

“What the fuck?” Smith snarled. Beside him, Trott peered down at the ground where he could see people running back and forth at the base of the ride.

_ “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” _

A thin thread of smoke rose up from the generator. The sounds of the carnival were muted, this high up, and Trott couldn’t tell what the ride operator was yelling.

“Trott,” Smith groaned.

“We’re alright, sunshine. Just look at Ross instead.” They both watched him, blissfully unaware of the chaos down below or that the ride shouldn’t have stayed still so long. He had his chin propped up in one hand as he stared out into the world, and his tail moved slowly back and forth by their feet. The late afternoon light almost made him sparkle. Trott put his arm around Smith’s shoulders, and thought this really was not the worst way to spend an afternoon.


	6. Autumn leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by garbagecourtfuzzies, the fluff we sometimes need in our lives

Smith’s phone beeped, a familiar chime that he ignores in favor of watching Ross try to delicately spear leaves with the tip of his tail. The blue was dark and stood out against the red, gold and brown of the leaves covering the grass. Something about the contrast pleased Smith, a warm feeling in his head and his gut.

“Isn’t that Trott’s ringtone?” Ross asked, not looking up from his task. He was stretched out on his stomach, resting on his elbows. His hands cradled a large paper coffee cup, half full of a pumpkin spice mocha.

“Yeah,” Smith said. He sprinkled leaves onto Ross’ back, and into the hood of his his jacket.

“Shouldn’t you answer?”

“Nah.” Smith shifted a little, sitting cross legged in the grass. A chilly breeze stirred his hair, and brought a fresh spattering of leaves down around them. The late afternoon light glowed directionless, the sun hidden behind layers of clouds. Not many people lingered in the park, and the shadows were almost nonexistent. He was glad he’d shrugged on the thick sweater before leaving the house.

Ross dragged his tail through the leaves, enjoying their crunch. He often found autumn melancholy, reminding him of long years in the slowly decaying cathedral. But sitting with Smith, a drink warm in his hands and the quiet, ever present pulse of their bond in his blood, Ross felt content. Happy even. He glanced up at Smith, and smiled.

“We’re both going to be in for it if you make him wait.”

“Afraid of Trott?” Smith snorted.

“You should be,” Ross countered with a laugh. He swept leaves towards Smith, and hummed when Smith reached out to catch his tail with both hands. Sipping his coffee, Ross let Smith curl his tail into loops. He wasn’t really worried. If it was important, his phone would have rung already. A leaf, brilliantly red, drifted down, and Ross reached out to catch it.


	7. St Rita

Quickly, Ross opened up the closet and reached for the box marked “PRIVATE PROPERTY” tucked up next to Sips’ bowling bag. In the weak yellow light of the bulb in the ceiling, Ross rifled through the tangle of beads and cards and little statues, familiar and comforting in his hands.

Squinting, he picked up a prayer card. The painting was of a kneeling nun, cradling a crucifix. Behind her hovered an angel, carrying a crown of thorns. Ross tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out a rosary, the garnet beads almost black in the light, and wrapped it around his hand. Carefully he replaced the box on the top shelf before turning out the light.

As he hurried down the hall, he could hear Smith’s curses from the living room. Ross’ fingers tightened painfully.

“Hold still, sunshine.” Trott’s voice was low, soothing, and at odds with the gory scene. Blood splattered his shirt and skin, dripping onto the sofa. There was plenty of blood on Ross’ clothes, but not all of it was Smith’s. 

“Where did Ross go?” he muttered, one hand pressed to Smith’s bleeding stomach. Beside him, Sips knelt with a hand on Smith’s knee.

“I’m here,” Ross said. He pressed a hand to Sips’ shoulder in passing, dropping the rosary in his lap. With a small, grateful smile, Sips looped it around his free hand.

“I’m going to need you to hold him,” Trott said, looking up at Ross with a searing intensity. “Hold him as still as possible.”

“What the fuck, Trott?” snarled Smith.

“I’ve got to pull it out of you before this gets any worse,” Trott explained. Smith moaned and closed his eyes, fingers clawing at the sofa cushion. Fresh blood rushed out of the wound as he twisted, darkening the upholstery. It looked black in the light.

“Sunshine, are you with me?” Trott’s voice was steady, but Ross could read a storm of emotions in his eyes. There was a very real sense of fear, and worry, and anguish at Smith’s suffering. He reached into his pocket, touching the prayer card for reassurance. Not that saints probably cared overmuch about fae. But it brought him some measure of comfort in otherwise impossible situations. He could see Sips’ lips moving silently, his thumb rubbing little circles over the rosary’s beads.

“Do you want me to lift him up?” asked Ross. His tail swished back and forth. Blood had dried all along the length of it. On the sofa, Smith writhed and groaned again. A fresh rivulet of blood ran down the floor.

“Come here.” Trott gestured to the floor beside the sofa. “Sips, can you...”

“I got it, Trott.” Remarkably calm, Sips rubbed his hand up Smith’s leg. “Come on Ross, I’ll help you get him up.”

Ross and Sips gently lifted Smith, and Ross settled into the bloodstained mess of the sofa. It didn’t matter now if he cracked the legs or crushed the springs in this one. They’d never use it again after tonight.

“Oh fuck, this fucking hurts,” Smith moaned. “Fuck me, Trott do something for fuck’s sake!” Ross held one of his hands as tightly as he dared, arranging Smith in his lap. His tail curled over one of Smith’s legs, and Sips put all his weight on the other. Blood smeared on Sips’ jeans.

“Hold onto me,” Ross whispered to Smith. He wrapped his other arm around Smith’s shoulders, and Sips took Smith’s free hand. Between them, he was as restrained as they could make him.

“This is going to hurt,” Trott warned. He leaned forward to brush his lips over Smith’s face, an apology for what he was about to do.

“It can’t hurt worse-” Smith broke off, cursing in his native tongue. Trott frowned, and put his hand back on Smith’s stomach, where blood pumped out with disturbing regularity. The ragged gash extended from his navel to his ribs, and Trott could see bone.

“Breathe,” whispered Trott, and he plunged his fingers into the dreadful wound in Smith’s side. The inhuman, dreadful scream Smith made was loud in Ross’ ears. Smith flung his head back, and Ross narrowly missed having his nose smashed by the back of his skull. He tightened his grip, concentrating on holding Smith even as he flailed in shock and pain. He could hearing Sips’ voice, low and shaking, but the words escaped him. The sound of Trott’s angry hiss made Ross look down, just in time to see Trott pull a twisted piece of iron out of Smith. He flung it away, and it bounced across the carpet. Shaking his hand as if burned, Trott pressed it back to Smith’s stomach.

“Okay sunshine, I got you.” Trott’s voice was rough as he worked the healing magic he knew. “We can fix this now.”

Ross closed his eyes again, and tried to remember the prayer on the back of the card. He prayed helplessly, soundlessly, for Smith to be alright, for anything or anyone listening. Smith moaned, a quieter sound, sagging into Ross.

“I knew you were a tough son of a bitch, Smiffy, no one’s going to kill you with a little iron.” Sips ruffled Smith’s hair, a wry smile on his face. Smith opened his eyes, and focused on Sips. He laughed then, wincing as the action jarred his injury.

“You’re going to be fine,” Sips continued. Trott glanced up, looking relieved. He held his hands against Smith’s stomach. No fresh blood pumped between his fingers.

“The couch however, is a complete fucking loss.” Sips shook his head. Trott stared at him for a moment, and barked an incredulous laugh.

“Sorry about your fucking sofa, your fucking majesty,” Smith gritted out from clenched teeth. “Ross you’re going to cut my damn leg off if you don’t loosen up with the tail.”

“Sorry,” Ross apologized, letting his grip slacken. Sips levered himself up, and walked over to pick up the bloodstained iron in the middle of the floor.

“What the fuck happened to you guys, anyways?” he asked, studying the twisted piece of metal.

“That’s a good question.” Trott sat back on his heels. “One I want to know the answer to.”


	8. Apple orchard

“What are you going to do with that many apples?” Smith asked skeptically. He sat on the arm of a tree, one leg swinging. The afternoon light cast dappled shadows on the ground, and Smith took a deep breath. The smell of the trees, the apples and leaves, stirred some long forgotten memory. It was actually much nicer than he’d expected when he’d agreed to take Ross out for the day.

“Make pie, maybe some muffins,” Ross said thoughtfully. He grinned up at Smith slyly. “I thought horses liked apples.”

“Oh fuck off.” Smith raised his middle finger, and rolled his eyes. He settled himself more comfortably in his place on the tree.

“I know you like apples though.” Amused, Ross went on picking apples. They were glossy and bright red. He munched on one absently, counting the apples in his basket. There were plenty for a couple pies. Maybe he could make some caramel covered ones. He and Sips both liked those a lot. Swinging his tail, casting bright flickers of light, Ross reached up to pull down another apple. It looked almost perfect. 

Smith glanced around, and leaned over to snag an apple from a nearby branch. He examined it with a critical eye before taking a bite. It crunched pleasingly between his teeth, sweet and tart. He ate slowly, enjoying the taste of the small apple.

“I think they had cider too… do you think we should get some apple cider?” Ross called over his shoulder. “Sips said something about apple cider doughnuts…”

“Yeah,” Smith agreed. He swung down from his place, dusting off his hands. He tossed the apple core into the long grass. He followed along behind Ross between the trees, kicking at the occasional apple on the ground.


	9. Afternoon tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a post on the Urban Magic Aesthetic blog [here](http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/133198234713/thecupcakemaniac-gemstone-cupcakes-first)

“What are those?” Ross peered over Honeydew’s shoulder, following him from the kitchen curiously.

“Cakes, of course.” The dwarf laughed. “Get the door for me, will you?” 

Ross opened the back door, trying not to loom overly much as Honeydew stepped outside. The autumn sunlight cast brilliant shadows between the colorful leaves of the tree in the back garden. It was one of those rare, perfect days with a sky so painfully blue, and just enough sunlight to take the edge off the chill. 

“They look like rocks,” mused Ross. His tail swung behind him as he circled the table on the small patio. Carefully, Honeydew set the silver tray down to one side. The cupcakes sparkled in the light, purple and blue and gold crystals rising out of the frosting. 

“Well, they are. Sort of. In a sense.” Honeydew glanced over his shoulder at the house. Xephos was still inside preparing the rest of the tea. The faint sound of Lalna’s radio carried out from an open window. 

“I thought people didn’t eat rocks.”

“Dwarves can eat rocks.”

“Really?”

Honeydew nodded.

“Don’t tell Xephos though, he gets so fussy about it and complains.” Honeydew offered Ross a cupcake, sparkling and purple. 

“When was the last time you ate a rock?” 

“About a month ago,” Honeydew said. “Limestone. Good for the digestion.”

“Huh.” Ross turned the cupcake round and round in his hands, holding it close to his face. It certainly looked like rocks. But surely Honeydew wasn’t feeding them rocks with their tea. Ross was looking forward to it. Xephos always made interesting sandwiches like the ones with ricotta and orange marmalade, or the pate and sour cherry on tiny rye toasts.

“Ross, put that down,” Xephos huffed as he carried out a platter of sandwiches. “Go fetch Will from whatever he’s doing up there, and Lalna.”

Ross sighed, putting the cupcake back with a mournful look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone eat it before you get back.” Honeydew gave him a little pat as he passed, and Ross nodded very seriously. He took a half step back and leaped up the side of the house, catching hold of one of the window ledges to climb up to the roof and the tiny widows walk at the attic.

“I meant use the stairs…” Xephos shook his head, staring as Ross swiftly climbed the side of the house.

“Probably easier on the floors if you let him do that,” Honeydew said. He picked up a cookie and crunched into the fine coating of sugar crystals. “Tea ready yet?”

“Coming right up,” Xephos said as he strode briskly back inside for the pot.


	10. First light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by this excellent piece of art.](http://threeplusfire.tumblr.com/post/139950032881/blithe-bee-so-some-of-you-probably-have-seen-me)

When they finally found a place of their own in the city, Trott spent a lot of time on the threshold and the magic to make it secure. The city was a chaotic, unknown quantity and there were more strange fae here than he had ever known. But it was cheap and in relatively decent shape, and the windows ran from floor to ceiling to let in the light.

Trott was pleased to find his wards and protections took to Smith without much trouble. He’d worried that perhaps the difference between ocean fae and river fae might be a problem, that his magic might not recognize Smith as being a part of his family, his tribe. Trott hadn’t said that out loud yet, but he thought about it. With Smith, he felt more at home than he had since he was a child.

Trott watched the magic twine around their hands, glittering like sunlight on the waves. He thought about how a heart could be a home, a pair of green eyes, a laugh.

Smith watched Trott, and thought about the way the sunlight gilded his hair, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He wanted Trott to always look so happy and at ease.


	11. Smith cooks dinner

Smith could tell when Trott felt homesick. He fretted at things more than usual, easily distracted and irritable. The decision to move away from the coast had been Trott’s idea, and Smith wondered if now he wished they hadn’t. 

The only thing Smith knew to do was to remind Trott of why he stayed here. 

Smith twisted the knob of the cheap electric stove, watching the coil heat up to a dull red. They had exactly two pans in the sparse kitchen. He set the slightly dented frying pan on the burner, and dropped a chunk of butter in it. While the butter slid and melted, Smith stirred at the bowl of pancake batter. Neither kelpies nor selkies had much tradition of pancakes, as far as he knew. Which made them the perfect food to remind Trott how good it was living on land. 

Pancakes were one of the few things Smith could actually cook. He spooned the batter into the pan, watching it spread. To distract himself from flipping the pancakes too soon, Smith hunted for the paper plates in mess of the counter.   
He stared at the pan, waiting for the delicate signs of the edges, the bubble that meant it was time to flip the pancake. He prodded the edge experimentally with his turner. The underside looked golden.

Carefully, Smith shook the pan and flipped the pancake. It landed with a satisfying splat, and Smith grinned. He’d spent a lot of time in late night diners, watching through the window into the kitchen. Once he’d even fucked a line cook, and the guy made Smith pancakes before they’d gone for another round in the back of Smith’s car.

The pancakes piled up on the paper plate, thick and golden. Smith cut more butter, sandwiching it in the stack before pouring a generous swirl of maple syrup to soak the stack. He set the plate on the cutting board, and grabbed some forks.

In the living room, Trott curled up in a blanket on their sofa. The television glow made the room bluish, and Smith wondered if the light reminded Trott of being underwater. 

“I made dinner,” Smith declared. 

“What?” Trott blinked at him.

“You’d better eat, I fucked a guy to learn how to do this.” Smith settled on the sofa beside Trott and held out a fork.

“You fucked a guy for pancakes?”

“The best pancakes, Trott.” Smith forked up a wedge, admiring the fluffy texture. He stuffed the bite into his mouth and made a happy sound. Trott stared at him for another moment before taking a bite. He chewed, silently.

“Seems worth it,” Trott said finally. He licked his lips. 

“Told you,” Smith said with satisfaction.


	12. Heartbroken

Smith waited in the grass, shifting from foot to foot. Kelpies rarely spent much time in each other’s company. Rarer still for a group of them to gather. But Varenne had been special and they all gathered for her last days.

He hated it. He hated the waiting, the strange milling they did along this stretch of river while they waited for her to die. He wondered if she were putting off their meeting until the very last moment.

If Varenne had not asked for him, Smith would not have come. 

Over the years, Smith had sometimes passed through this stretch of river where Varenne held sway. She was his grandmother, by the way one reckoned such things. Not the one who bore him, but the one who taught him. Smith had not caught sight of his mother in the milling throng but she must be there somewhere.

The heat of the day oppressed them all, and Smith felt a flicker of guilt for wishing it would just end already.

In the summer twilight, the sun hovered just over the edge of the plain. The grass stirred fitfully in the breeze. Storms threatened from the south, dark clouds that sometimes crackled and rumbled. Smith dragged his hooves as he approached the bank where Varenne waited. She sat, almost in the water. Her coat was dull, a charcoal color over her bones.

“You waited,” she said. Her voice was thin, reedy.

“Of course.” Smith huffed, as if he was offended. But he settled beside Varenne and laid his head over her neck. It was a little easier if he couldn’t look directly into her eyes. They were large and dark as ever, burning coals in her head. 

They were silent together, listening to the river and the distant thunder. Somewhere around the bend, the other kelpies lurked. But here, it was only the two of them. It felt like his younger years again, just the two of them on the river bank where Varenne taught Smith everything he knew about magic.

“I want you to go, tonight. Before the storm if you can.” Varenne shifted, and Smith lifted his head.

“Why?” It was the question he always asked, and she laughed. The sound was dry, ghostly already.

“Because I am giving you something, and the others won’t like it.”

Smith pulled his head back to look at Varenne. She transformed herself, the air shimmering around her until a woman sat there. Her white hair fell down her back in tangles, but her face was unlined.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she chuckled. “I am allowed to be vain, even if I am dying.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Smith said lightly. He changed himself, shifting into the human form he favored lately. Humans liked a pretty face, and he could be very pretty. 

Varenne dug in the sandy bank, reaching beneath the stones until she pulled out a small parcel. The oilcloth was dark, wrapped tightly around something barely bigger than her hand.

“No.” Smith shook his head, almost frantically.

“Yes,” Varenne said. “Don’t argue. Take it. Keep it. I want you to, and that’s all that matters.”

With trembling hands, Smith unwrapped her bridle. The silver chain was delicate in his hands, oblong links that felt heavier than they looked.

“But _why?_ ” Smith asked, his voice breaking.

“Because you’ll go far in this world, and need all the help you can get, my love.” Varenne gestured and Smith leaned forward. She held his head in her hands and kissed his bright hair. Her magic coiled around them, a lightness that made Smith’s body tingle. With careful hands, Varenne helped him link the chain to his own, twining them together. The magics fused, a quiet chiming ringing in Smith’s ears.

“Go now, my love, and don’t look back.” Varenne kissed him solemnly three times. Smith swallowed his tears, grief and love breaking his heart. Before she pulled away, he caught her hands. They felt fragile as birds in his grip. She smiled at him as he staggered to his feet and changed. 

Wind whipped across the plain, driving the storm and the kelpie to the north.


	13. Milkshake

“I’m fucking starving,” Smith said as he slid behind the wheel. The car creaked as Ross settled in the passenger seat. He watched silently as Smith drove, winding them through a city he hardly knew despite his long residence. Fascinated Ross studied the lights, the buildings, the occasional pedestrian in the night.

Smith pulled in beside a building, and Ross studied the brightly glowing sign. It meant nothing to him, though he long ago taught himself how to read. Instead he watched the street, the traffic still steady despite the late hour. It was a Saturday, he thought. Tomorrow would be the first Sunday in his entire lifetime that he wouldn’t be in the church. He turned the thought over and over in his head.

“Here.” Smith thrust something into his hand. Ross studied the cup, the waxy paper and plastic cold. Smith spun the steering wheeled and shot backwards, earning an angry honk from another car.

“Ever had a milkshake?” Smith asked. Ross shook his head. Smith’s grin split his face, wide and gleeful.

“Oh, welcome to the real world.” He slurped at his own cup as he drove. “Best goddamn milkshakes in the city.”

Ross sniffed carefully at the milkshake, curious. The cold stung his mouth as he took a swallow. It tasted overpoweringly sweet, like nothing he’d ever had. Before he realized what he was doing, it was entirely gone.

At the stop light, Smith looked over at him licking the straw and smiled again.


	14. In sync

For the most part, Sips considered himself a pretty unflappable guy. After all, he was living a supremely weird life in a strange city thousands of miles from home. He’d seen a lot of weird shit in his time, even before he got here.

Sometimes though, the hair on the back of his arms would rise and he’d feel that cold prickle across his neck. Didn’t happen often. But when it did, Sips held his breath. It meant something extra, extra weird was happening.

Right now, it was the way all three of them pivoted and swung their heads to the left in the same breath. The thick shadows in the back of the empty warehouse seemed darker there, and Sips found himself wishing for the daylight outside. The grimy windows high up near the ceiling didn’t do much to illuminate the derelict space.

They were not alone here.

Something moved out of the dark, teeth and claws and too many limbs and too big for Sips’ peace of mind. He put his back against the bricks, cold sweat on his skin under his sweatshirt.

Into the whirling mass, the other three moved in uncanny synchronicity. Like dancers, they leaped and flung themselves. Knives and claws glinted, dripping dark blood. Smith vaulted himself upwards, using Ross as a springboard to leap onto the creature’s back. Trott dashed through the melee, skipping over tails as Ross smashed his way directly into the face of the monster.

When it was over, Sips lit a cigarette. Smith raised an eyebrow at him, while Trott wiped blood off Ross’ face.


	15. Comfort food

Trott slammed the door, too hard. The entire wall seemed to rattle. He grimaced at the sound, thinking they should hunt down some new place to live. This building was only a few steps from being condemned and torn down. It was a miracle it even had running water. The electricity was very intermittent however, and it flickered gloomily.

The power cuts happened enough now that the breakfast bar was permanently encrusted with candles and wax. Trott struck a match and lit a few before it burned down to his fingers. Cursing under his breath, Trott kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag on the floor before stomping over to the sofa and throwing himself down. He laid there on his side, filled with a vague dissatisfaction. The afternoon light from the dirty windows, one patched with a bit of plywood, was cloudy and dim.

Ross’ footsteps were heavy and distinct, easily identified. Trott didn’t even bother to get up, resolutely stewing in his unhappiness.

“Trott?” Ross stepped into view. He carried a couple grocery sacks in his arms.

“Mmm.” Trott rolled over, facing the sofa cushions. Ross shuffled into the kitchen to set down his bags. Trott half listened to the rustling as he traced the faded pattern, barely visible.

The heavy thump of Ross dropping to the floor disrupted his musings. Trott wondered when the floor was going to give out beneath him.

“I got you something,” Ross said, after Trott continued to lay there in grumpy silence. Something gently prodded Trott’s ribs. For a moment, he considered ignoring Ross. Moping had its pleasures. But Trott heaved a sigh and twisted back around.

“What is it, Ross?” sighed Trott.

Ross gently poked a bag into his hands. Trott squinted at the colorful label.

“Goldfish crackers,” he said, his voice flat.

“They’re shaped like fish.”

“I can see that.”

“But they come in lots of flavors,” Ross said. “They were on sale, so I bought a bunch. I thought you might like them.” He lifted a handful of packages, each one different. Something about his earnest expression crumbled Trott’s grumpy resolve.

“Thank you, sunshine.” Trott shook a few of the bright orange crackers into his palm.

“They didn’t have fish flavor.”

“That’s alright.” Trott slid off the sofa to sit with Ross, pressed against the comfortable coolness of his body. Ross tore open another package, spilling pretzel fish into his lap. They ate goldfish crackers in contented silence, side by side, while they waited for Smith to come back.


	16. A morning run in the park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene has lingered in my drafts folder for at least a year. I've never quite figured out where it should go, but I'm loathe to delete it. So here it will live.

Sips sprawled on the bench, a cup of coffee in one hand and a doughnut in the other. The early morning sunlight shone golden and pink tinged with red, and the park was quiet except for the birds. The sounds of the city were muted, distant. 

Smith stamped his feet in grass and snorted, breath steaming in the chilly air. 

"Hush," said Ross in a quiet voice. "I'm almost done, and you can go run around." Gently, he tugged on the braid he was finishing. Trott tied the end off with a ribbon, fingers deftly shaping a neat bow. Ross tucked small flowers into his hair, marigolds he'd picked along the walk. 

"Going to give me a ride, sunshine?" Trott asked. He leaned against Smith's shoulder. Smith rolled his eyes with a wet snort, and Trott laughed. 

Instead of climbing on Smith's back, he tangled strings of rough pearls and shells through his mane. They stood out pale, and bright against his copper colored mane. 

"All done." Ross stroked a hand down his back, watching Smith shift restlessly from side to side. Smith shook his head, the shells making a tiny clatter. 

"Go on," Trott urged. He resisted the urge to slap Smith on the hip, only because last time Smith bit him for it, and that shit hurt. Horses had big teeth. Trott stepped back and slid an arm around Ross' waist. They watched Smith speed off down the hill into the open park, kicking up little bits of dirt and grass as he ran.

"That is so fucking weird," Sips said abruptly from his spot on the bench. Trott looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

"That’s hardly the weirdest thing you’ve seen,” he protested.

“Yeah, I know.” Sips adjusted his sunglasses, cheap plastic ones he’d swiped from Smith on the way out the door. “But this is Smiffy, and that makes it extra weird.”

“He is lovely though,” Ross said, still watching Smith canter in circles through the grass. He gleamed in the sunlight, a brilliant red chestnut color. Ross hadn’t believed it was a normal horse color, until Trott found some horse related magazine and brought it home for him. 

“Well, no one’s going to try to get on a broken down, old horse,” Trott pointed out. “He’s got to look pretty, to lure them in.”

“Seems like a weird time to be hunting, unless you’ve developed a taste for early joggers,” Sips grumbled. He wasn’t a fan of mornings, but they’d all three cajoled him out of the warmth of bed with the promise of doughnuts to walk down to the empty city park some blocks from their building. Nature and sunrises were not high on Sips’ list of priorities. But his curiosity and Smith’s barely restrained nervous energy lured him out the door. Now he was watching Smith be a horse in the most mundane sort of way. Sips rubbed his eyes, and exhaled loudly. 

“Nah, Smith just likes to run sometimes.” 

“He likes the attention,” Ross said under his breath. Trott chuckled.

“Who wouldn’t?” He nudged Ross with a shoulder. “We make him even prettier.”

Ross smiled. He still held a few flowers in one hand, and he tucked one behind Trott’s ear. 

“What are you doing?” Trott murmured. He didn’t stop Ross from placing a second flower next to the first one, or from putting one in the buttonhole of his shirt. The morning light lit up his horns, brilliant blue shadows across his serious expression.

“There,” Ross said with quiet satisfaction. He let his fingers brush Trott’s face. 

“Wait.” Trott grabbed his wrist. From his pocket he pulled out another string of shells interspersed with bits of sea glass in shades of green, blue, and amber. He wound it around and around Ross’ wrist, neatly tying the ends under a shell. 

Ross wondered where they came from, how long Trott had been carrying those around, if it meant something. He turned his wrist back and forth, listening to the clink of shell and glass. Trott’s fingers were warm where they curled around his own. 

“Thank you,” Ross said quietly. His tail swayed through the fading autumn grass, and looped around Trott’s leg. 

Smith bumped Ross’ shoulder, interrupting the moment. He shook his head and nickered, eyes dark and wide.

“No one paying attention to you, sunshine?” Trott laughed, petting him on the nose. Smith snorted, ears twitching forward. Ross thought he was rather expressive for a horse, making all his snorts sound variously impatient or amused.

Sips set his coffee down on the bench and ambled over, munching on the frosted doughnut. Smith stretched his neck forward, trying to take a bite.

“Watch it, Smiffy!” Sips jerked his hand away. Smith huffed.

“Ever ridden a horse?” Trott asked. Sips gave him a long look, trying to decide if he was joking or not.

“No, and I’m not about to start now.”

“I’m sure he’d let you - wouldn’t you Smith?” Trott smiled, sly and amused.

“I know how that story ends,” Sips said. “No chance in hell.”

Smith stamped his foot, tail flicking. The morning clouds drifted low and fast, the early light slipping out between them. The sunlight seemed to glow on Smith’s coat. Ross stroked his neck, feeling the restless energy vibrating through him. 

“Go on,” urged Ross. “Stretch your legs before the city wakes up and someone wonders why there’s a horse running around Petrin Park.” 

Smith trotted a circle around them, and then took off back down the hill. Trott and Ross clapped appreciatively as Smith leaped over a line of bushes and raced away further across the grassy slope and gravel paths. Sips licked the icing off his fingers, wandering back to the bench in search of a napkin. Ross watched Smith appear and disappear through the trees.

“How often does he do this?” asked Sips, wiping his hands clean. He picked up his cup and slurped at the lukewarm coffee.

“Every now and then.” Trott tilted his head back to look up at the sky. The dark grey undersides of the clouds hinted at rain. But it was still bright and peaceful for now. Far down the slope Smith neighed and leaped a park bench. 

 

* * *

 

Ross whistled loudly, trying to draw Smith back up the hill. He held Smith’s clothes in one hand and waved. Trott and Sips sat on the bench, eating the last of the doughnuts. A woman jogged past, giving them an odd glance as Smith trotted up to Ross. Trott wondered if they could get away with glamoring him to look like a very large dog. He lost himself in working out the complexities of the illusion. 

“How did you get so much grass all over you?” Ross groaned. He dropped Smith’s clothes with a sigh, and pulled a brush out of his coat. Smith only made a satisfied chuffing sound as Ross set to cleaning him.

“Shameless,” Trott laughed, watching. Smith pulled the same trick every time. Just before he came back, he rolled around in the grass and made a mess of himself. Any excuse to get one of them to pay just that much more attention to him. Ross hadn’t caught on yet to just how deliberate it was. Carefully, Ross untangled the shells from Smith’s hair and stashed them in a pocket of his hoodie.

Sips frowned as he watched Smith transform. The air around him shimmered and the horse seemed to melt, soft as wax.

“That’s a bit off putting,” he said under his breath. 

“That isn’t even the horror show version,” Trott commented dryly. 

“It gets worse?” Sips glanced askance at Trott, and back to Smith.

“Yup,” he nodded. “Kelpies out in the wild don’t spend all that much time shifted to look human.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to know.” Sips grimaced. 

“Where do you think all the nightmares in fairy tales come from, Sips?” 

Sips shook his head. 

“I try not to think too hard about that, if I’m honest.”

Ross held Smith’s prized new boots, shimmery albino snakeskin that gleamed like Ross’ marble. Beside him, Smith pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric stretched and worn.   

“Is this really that unsettling?” Trott smiled, but the question in his eyes was serious. Their strange mortal king was still a work in progress, a puzzle no one had an answer to yet.

“A little.” Sips shrugged. “What can you do though?” He leaned back, his expression unconcerned. Trott filed that thought away for another day. He finished off his doughnut, powdered sugar dusting his clothes.

Across the path, Smith pulled on his boots and flopped back into the grass. Ross tried to pull him up, but Smith stubbornly resisted. Tail swishing back and forth, Ross crouched over Smith. Trott couldn’t hear what they were saying. The wind gusted, rippling the grass. He watched Smith lift a hand to Ross’ cheek.

“Not much, in your position,” Trott finally said, remembering the thread of the conversation.

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to hang around with you guys.”

“What were you thinking, when you followed Smith?” Trott wanted to know the answer. It was one of those things that puzzled him at odd hours, a stray thought that never quite went away.

“You had to know something was off. You’ve never seemed that blind.”

“I was thinking it had been a long time since I did anything dangerous and dumb just for the fun of it.” Sips raised an eyebrow, still looking at the other two in the grass. They were kissing now, Smith pulling Ross down to him.

“Smith’s dangerous, but not as dumb as he looks.”

Sips laughed, and tossed the coffee cup into the trash can.  Across the pathway, Ross heaved Smith up over his shoulder. Smith yelped, kicking his legs out in a bit of undignified flailing. Some of the flowers fell from his hair, drifting into the grass.

“Ross what are you doing?” 

“He said he was too tired to walk home.” 

“Put me down!”

“Tired after half an hour?” Trott tutted. “We’re going to have to start getting up early, making you take walks every day if you’re that out of shape.”

“Fuck you, Trott, I’m not-”

“Stop hitting me!” Ross tried to grab one of Smith’s arms.

“Honestly Trott, _this_ is why I can’t take anything seriously.” Sips shook his head. “Who’s going to be afraid of a murder horse when you know he tries to eat other people’s doughnuts and likes people to braid his hair?”

Trott barked a laugh, caught off guard. He tried to cover his mouth, but Smith had already stopped hitting Ross to glare at them both. Sips shrugged, and the corner of his mouth turned up in that little secretive smile.

“Come on, let’s go get a real breakfast.” Sips put his hands in his jacket pockets. “It’s cold out here.”

Ross let Smith slide off his shoulder, still thwacking him from time to time with his tail. They trailed along behind Trott and Sips down the hill towards 14th Street, in search of a diner with an open booth.

 


End file.
